The Mumbling Abomination
by Hypnogogia
Summary: The Spy attempts to discover Pyro's mysterious identity. He uncovers the one thing he never suspected. A Semi-Lovecraftian Tale of Mild Terror! Moderate thrills guaranteed!


**A Semi-Lovecraftian Tale of Mild Terror**

_I came up with the idea for this story after a heavy session of reading H.P Lovecraft, and finally finished it up 2 months later, after 2 bottles of toffee apple cider, whilst waiting for trick-or-treaters._

_I hope you enjoy my attempt at fusing Lovecraft with TF2...although it will never live up to the inimitable glory of _The Teufort Horror_._

_...Spy makes for a very good Lovecraft-narrator._

* * *

I am writing this account so that, should I vanish without a trace, some poor soul may find these scribblings and know what occurred here. I fear that, come the morning, this wad of stained and hastily inscribed papers will be all that is left of me. The creature showed me its secret quite willingly, and for this knowledge I fear it plans to destroy me. If I am not still chained to this narrow hospital bed come the morning, then be sure that my body has been burned to ashes and scattered to the desert winds. I do not doubt that the abomination knows how to remove me from the respawn system, for it spends much of its time around the Engineer. I do not think I doubt anything about that abomination anymore.

Forgive me for choosing the backs of these medical notes as my canvas, and forgive, please, my shaking hands. It is hard to write, drugged and restrained as I am, and my mind is still rattled by the horrors I saw, horrors that sent me screaming and fleeing from that accursed room in the dead of night, horrors that sent me into such hysterics that the Medic, alarmed by my shrieking, had me sedated and locked up in the Medical Bay. I would have fled and taken my chances with the vast empty desert, were it not for the sturdy handcuff that chains me to the bedrail. Ah, Medic! Little do you know it, but you have signed my death warrant. That unholy _thing_ will find me before the morning light does.

I can only hope that you will find this account, hidden beneath the pillows, and know my terrible fate – what you shall do with this terrible revelation I shudder to imagine.

It was my own curiosity that doomed me, I confess. I had, since first setting eyes on them, been intrigued by what, and who, lay under the mask of the mercenary known only as "Pyro". Ah, that enigmatic name. Ah, that infuriating mask! How it hypnotised me! How it tormented me! It was a work of art, in truth, a blank black visage of smooth rubber that conformed to its owners head so tightly that it seemed a second skin. There were no wrinkles to that mask, no visible contours from which I could trace the shape of the man…or woman, who wore it. Those tinted lenses, too, were dark enigmas never revealing what eyes stared out from behind them. And the maddening thing was, that mask never left their face. They ate and slept behind the locked door of their room, and it was assumed that they only braved the showers in the dead of the night – if they showered at all. In all the long years we worked with them, it seemed that no-one had seen Pyro without that impassive mask, and that shapeless rubber suit.

You may be surprised that the mystery of what lay beneath vexed me so, for I am no stranger to hiding behind a mask myself. But my mask is made of soft fabric. It stretches with the skin it conceals, allows me to breathe, eat, drink, smoke and speak quite freely, and leaves my vision unhindered. The Pyro's mask seemed to have no such comforts. My very career, too, rests upon my anonymity, my future upon my ability to remove my mask, and slip unrecognised into the shadows. For the Pyro to conceal themselves behind such a heavy, uncomfortable suit, and a mask that robbed them of their speech, there must be an equal or greater reason for anonymity. Yes, I perceived that behind that mask lay some precious and terrible secret, a secret that the Pyro would suffer great discomforts to protect. And like the poor fool that I am, I strove to uncover it.

My profession rests upon uncovering the secrets of others, and the leap from obsession to investigation was a painfully simple one to make. Forgive me, ah, please forgive me, for the actions that I must relate to you will seem a gross breach of privacy, although I shall confess, they are by no means the worst I have sunk to in my long career. The first, and possibly the least despicable, was the theft of the Pyro's medical notes and personal file. It was a simple act for one such as me, and yet I found that these purloined documents raised more questions than they answered. It was no secret to me that my employers cared little for their subject's sanity, prior experience, or past crimes, provided that they were proficient in their chosen field, but I confess I was shocked by how little information they had gleaned from the Pyro. There was no gender, age, or even vague nationality recorded in their file, no picture save for one of them already wearing that baffling mask. Of their history, too, there was very little. It did not surprise me to learn that they were contacted following a sting of unexplained and monstrous crimes, the details of which shake me to the core now that I know the truth. At the time though, aside from a confirmation of the Pyro's mental state, this file told me little.

So too did the medical notes I lifted from the Medic's office as he slumbered. The Pyro had never submitted to an initial check-up, and exhausted from examining seven other recruits, the Medic had neglected to press the issue. Neither, it seemed, had the Pyro ever been troubled by any minor malady – or if they had been, they had nursed their complaint in silence, rather than seeking a prescription. Of their injuries, all had either been healed by the rejuvenating mist of the MediGun, or had been severe enough send them through the temporary oblivion of respawn. What remained of Pyro's medical notes were pure speculation on the part of the Medic, speculation that only inflamed my interest. Notably, the man had pondered on what disorder of the lungs or throat had ravaged Pyro's voice into an unintelligible mumble, yet left them with enough breath to fight with surprising speed and vigour. He had also mused on how they managed to exert themselves for long periods, in such sweltering weather and in such a stifling suit, without causing themselves severe harm. What little I learned from these stolen files only added to the mystery – and propelled me to even greater lengths to uncover the truth.

The second act of my investigation was as simple as it was indecent. I had heard, of course, the rumour that the Pyro took their showers by night, and I am ashamed to say that the lure of discovering their identity over-rode my sense of decency. Making use of one of my cloaking watches, the one that concealed me indefinitely provided that I remained still, I waited until the rest of my team-mates had performed their ablutions and retired to bed, before concealing myself in the shower block. I had long since perfected the art of taking shallow cat-naps, drowsing on the very edge of wakefulness, ready to wake at the slightest stimulus, and thus I spent the night in this fashion, waiting for the Pyro to show themselves.

My waiting was in vain, it seemed: the Pyro did not wake me that night, and I greeted the morning light with only a lingering stiffness for my troubles. Neither did they disturb my sleep the following night, nor the night after that. With growing fatigue and frustration, I began to wonder whether my skills at observation had become blunted, whether I had slept through their arrival. Indeed, I began to wonder whether the Pyro cared for hygiene at all, or whether they had sunk too deep into the waters of madness to notice.

Ah yes, I thought the Pyro mad, until the very end. Now I fear it is the sanest of us all.

On the fourth night, the Pyro came, muffled breathing startling me from my sleep. I blinked back into consciousness to see them come creeping through the door, that masked head darting from side to side with a frantic, nervous energy, and I confess that a cold shiver crept down my spine as those glassy lenses passed over my hiding spot. In battle, the enemy Pyro was my greatest foe, that blank gaze seeming to penetrate my cloak, such was their skill in detecting me, and that recognition was invariably followed by the searing pain of fire, and the brief waking nightmare that is respawn. For a moment, I was transfixed by dread. Then the Pyro's gaze left me, and they stepped forward into the shower block. My breath caught in my throat as they slipped off their boots, revealing a pair of what appeared to be black, rubberised socks beneath. I watched with terrible, trembling anticipation as the unhitched their belt and braces, lowering their air-tank to the floor with a muted clanking.

My anticipation swiftly became bemusement as I watched the Pyro step under the shower without removing any further items of clothing.

I remained in my corner of the shower block for the entire baffling spectacle, watching with mounting confusion as the Pyro scrubbed at the rubbery surface of their suit, grunting with pleasure as the steaming water seemed to hit only insensible plastic. I watched, through billows of mounting steam, as they wiped the lenses of their mask with surprising gentleness. I remained transfixed, my mind a whirl of perplexity, as they finished this insane ritual, shaking the water from their smooth and rubbery head, affixing the tank to their back again, and pulling on their boots. I watched them give a final shake, sending a cascade of water droplets flying from their glistening and rubbery surface, and then leave with the same furtiveness as when they'd arrived.

The next night I slept in my own bed, my mind a mixture of confusion, frustration, and mounting obsession.

I know full well what you whispered about me. I know how you feared I may be hiding, invisible, waiting to prey upon your privacy, and steal secrets you would rather take to the grave. In truth, I confess that I was a greater danger to you when I was in plain sight. My greatest skill lay not in skulking in the shadows, but in teasing information from its owner's mouth most willingly. I knew what you whispered about the Pyro, all of you. I knew how Scout suspected that they were a woman, a possibility I had certainly not ruled out myself, although I severely doubted that they were the buxom, slender beauty that the boy envisioned. I knew how the Soldier was sure that under that mask was the picture of fine, all-American patriotism. He believed the same about me. I am sure he shall give me a hero's burial. The Demoman, in his drunken ramblings, claimed that the Pyro was a demon straight from Hell, adding "but he's oor demon from Hell, and he always buys his round when it's his turn, so we should'nae hold it against the lad." The Sniper, insightful for all his poor hygiene, was of the opinion that the Pyro was some notorious criminal, granted sanctuary by our employers, after "the coppers found his basement fulla human ears". The Engineer, forever the gentleman for all his coarse country dialect, was reticent to gossip about them, but it took little persuasion to draw out the truth: the Engineer suspected that his constant companion was a troubled young man, shaken from some past trauma and not to blame for his more grotesque impulses. Of the Medic, I knew from his notes that he believed the Pyro to be a scarred wreck of a man beneath the suit, hiding a body burned from head-to-foot, a face scorched to the bone, and a useless wheeze of a voice.

The Heavy had no such concrete theories. Oh, his horror of the Pyro was common knowledge, and plain to see in the way he blanched when the stumbled across them, the way he hurriedly left the room when they arrived. But as to what scared him so, what terrors could shake a man of his stature made near-immortal by the powers of the respawn system, what horrors made him flee their presence time and time again even when faced with the ridicule of his team-mates, he could not articulate. The words he said frustrated me at the time, his stilted grasp of English making his explanation meaningless to me.

"Pyro is not right." He had said. "There are things that are not meant to be on this earth. Very bad things. The Pyro is one of them."

Ah, Heavy. You were a far more insightful man than I ever gave you credit for. I hope you will forgive me for recognising this only on my deathbed. Alas, I think it will be more likely that you will hate me for the crimes I relate.

I fear you may come to pity me also.

It was yesterday that I took the course of action that doomed me to this fate. It was with the heat of battle behind me, and the long cool desert night before me that I took my leave of you all, and retired to my room. I was feeling tired and unwell, I said, and would not be requiring supper that evening. I would be sleeping, I said, and did not want to be disturbed until morning, you will recall. Once in the darkness of my room, however, I did not sleep. How could I, when my mind was plagued by this oppressive mystery? Instead I prepared my cloaking device, pocketed my revolver, and waited with a terrible, trembling anticipation.

I did not wait long. The Soldier's brutish call to supper roused me from my anxious state, and on practiced feet, using the thunder of a multitude of heavy footsteps as cover, I made my way to the door of the Pyro's room. With the muffled sound of voices ringing in the mess-hall below, I collected my breathing, stilled my shaking hands, and awaited the Pyro's return.

They did not keep me waiting long. Their heavy footsteps preceded them as they made their way down the hall, their breathing rattling in their chest as they approached, bringing with them a plate of meat, gravy and vegetables. I stilled my breath as they fumbled one-handed for their key, heart stuttering when their gaze seemed to linger too long on my hiding place. Then they slid the key into their lock and pushed the door open. I followed after, tailing as closely and as silently as a shadow.

Ah, forgive my hurried notes, forgive my frantic scrawls. I hear footsteps in the darkness. It will not be long now, I fear.

It was the stench that hit me when I first entered the Pyro's room, a deep, sour stink of decay so strong that I nearly doubled over retching. It permeated the room, choking my senses and seeping into my skin. As I gagged, almost tempted to flee that nauseating smell, the Pyro made their unconcerned way over to the window, and pulled the latch open with one huge, rubbery hand. The smell intensified, and had the door not already swung shut and the latch already clicked into place, I am sure that I would have fled at that moment. But no. With no stealthy escape open to me, I bit down my nausea, and with supreme force of will, made my way across the room, and peered through that dusty little window.

Below me, in a rotting heap, lay the source of the stench.

The Pyro's window opened out onto the roof of a small storage hut. On that ridged surface of steel lay, inches thick, a putrescent carpet of mouldering food. As I drew back from the repulsive sight, the Pyro leaned from that narrow window, and poured the fresh, steaming contents of their plate into the rancid slurry below.

My mind was a whirl. Confusion oppressed me as much as the choking atmosphere. The Pyro did not eat? No, that was an impossibility. They must eat something, even if it was not the rations provided, even if there was scare little else to be found in this barren reach of the desert. Perhaps they hoarded supplies in their room? Perhaps their insanity forced them to trust only their own provisions?

As I pondered, frantic solutions surfacing in the turmoil of my brain, the Pyro made their way over to the bed. Again, they unclipped their harness, and let their air-tank fall to the floor (covered in a choking shroud of ash, I noticed). Again, they slipped off their boots, and revealed those glistening rubberised socks. They made no move to remove any more of the suit, and I half expected them to retire to bed as they were, fully masked and stinking of the day's battle.

They did not.

It was then that the Pyro's gaze roved over to me. A thousand prickles went down my spine, and I tensed, waiting for their stare to waver, for them to glance elsewhere.

They did not.

That hand came up. That huge, gloved, blood-splattered hand came up, their gaze never leaving mine. And my blood ran cold as I recognised that gesture.

The Pyro was beckoning me closer.

The Pyro _saw me._

My heartbeat was a deafening rhythm, my breathing an obscene symphony. I froze in place, although I could not stop my body from shaking, and prayed that I was mistaken, that the Pyro was watching some delusion race through their demented head, that they saw something else, some hallucination, anything but me.

The Pyro mumbled faintly, and beckoned again.

The Pyro shuffled over, and patted the newly-formed space on the bed.

I de-cloaked, trembling hands fumbling my watch. In some small way, I hoped that my sudden appearance would shock them, make them scream and panic and bring the rest of the team running to their aid. Anything that meant that the impossible wasn't true. Anything that meant I was mistaken.

But no. They did not flinch as I materialised before them. On the contrary, they patted the bed again, more insistently. And with no other options, still reeling, I obeyed and sat beside them.

I did not speak. My mouth was dry, my tongue near-paralysed, leaving me with no more power of speech than the creature beside me. As always, if the Pyro could speak, it chose not to. Instead, it transfixed me with a look that froze me in place, a look that seemed as though it could penetrate more than merely my cloak, a glance that seemed to stretch into infinity. Then their head cocked to one side, a terrible picture of curiosity, and a huge glove reached out and seized my wrist.

I nearly shrieked at that touch, but terror left me mute. The Pyro was still for a moment. Then that other hand reached out, and stripped the glove from my hand, with a sudden shock of cool air on sweat-slicked skin. My wrist was held with a terrible, irresistible firmness, and my mind raced, baffled as to what they wanted, fearing that they would take my hand as some morbid trophy.

But no. With a grip insistent yet surprisingly gentle, they took my hand, and placed it against the smooth rubber of their suit, pressing it close. The strange intimacy of the situation made me supress a shudder, as I felt that slick, shiny suit. The rubber was hot, hot as though its owner had only just stepped in from the desert heat, hot as though the wearer were afflicted by some terrible fever. That gaze bored into me again, as they moved my hand again, bringing it up to graze their arm, to run over the pale flame-emblem etched into their shoulder. Again, the rubber burned. My fingers traced that symbol, feeling the strange raised roughness of it, as though it had been scorched into the rubber, branded onto the suit. The Pyro grunted at my trembling, curious touch, but did not drag my hand away. Instead, I was led upwards, until my hand rested on that object of my initial curiosity, the thing that had doomed me to such obsession: that terrible, blank mask the Pyro wore. My fear was mixed in equal measure with a terrible, fateful curiosity. It felt that rubber mask, the thin layer of rubber that stood between Pyro's face and the world, felt it burn beneath my hand so hot it threatened to scorch my skin. I scarcely cared. I traced that that filter, feeling the hot moisture of their breath wheeze in and out, carrying with it a vile yet un-nameable smell. I felt those lenses, black and glossy and utterly impenetrable, made of some strange material that gave slightly beneath my fingers, earning me another grunt from the Pyro. I traced the strange shapelessness of their face, my questing fingers finding no clue as to what lay beneath, finding no bone structure as my hand made its way down their neck, reaching for my final destination, the moment that would end my months of feverish questioning.

I reached under the warm folds of their collar, the Pyro giving no protest, and fumbled for the edge of their mask.

I steeled myself, even as I searched for where the mask ended. I prepared myself to stare into a face that was a face no longer. I prepared myself for melted and twisted flesh, for dripping holes where a nose once was, for a mouth that was nothing more than a toothy hole. I prepared myself for empty sockets or milky and ruined eyes, or the hollow and broken gaze of a madman. I prepared myself for a man, for a woman, for a notorious criminal, or a scared, broken teenager. I even prepared myself for a demon.

I steeled myself for a thousand horrors that night, even as I failed to find where that mask ended, even as the smooth black rubber seemed to meld straight into the underside of their collar. I was prepared for a multitude of nightmares, as my frustrated hands fumbled more urgently to remove that mask, tugging on that filter, even as the Pyro began a terrible, muffled laugh, even as the true horror began to sink in.

Yes, I was prepared for all horrors but one, the final revelation that sent me into madness and oblivion. I had searched for their secret for so long, let my mind dwell on so many possibilities, I had missed the truth staring me in the face.

There was no secret beneath that mask.

_The Pyro did not wear one!_


End file.
